Siren Calls
by MaryMoo98
Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid has finally become determined to kick his Dilaudid addiction and begin to rebuild the relationships the drug had been tearing apart. He even begins to rekindle a romance with an old flame. This story is primarily about his return to himself, with some romance, friendship, and finally cannon couples thrown in the mix. I promise it's better than it sounds. :)
1. Chapter 1

reid

It is nighttime in Quantico, and Spencer Reid is pretty sure he has been dying for half an hour.

He'd known it was coming, of course—he had shot up for the last time a few hours ago, a farewell of sorts—so he had made sure to position himself where he thought he'd be most safe when it first started, surrounding himself with pillows, blankets, fluffy things to lower the possibility of visible bruises. He hasn't moved of his own accord since, but the tremors that have been randomly wracking his body have shifted him a few inches and, in a blessed second of release, he can see into the small space under his couch. It's filthy—fast food wrappers, empty syringes with dirty needles, dust piled almost high enough for him to make mini sculptures with if he wanted to. He'd run a vacuum through the apartment haphazardly a few times in the past month or so, but he hadn't cared enough to get into the hard-to-reach places. Time spent cleaning was time he could have spent getting high, and most of the time, he had decided the cleaning could wait.

When five minutes pass and Spencer has been still for all of them, he gets up tentatively and walks on wobbly legs to the fridge, uncapping a water bottle slowly and taking a sip. Mentally he runs through everything he knows about drug withdrawals, specifically those related to sub-species of morphine: _severe anxiety, insomnia, profuse sweating, muscle spasms, chills, shivering, tremors, restlessness, yawning, gooseflesh, restless sleep, irritability, weakness, severe backaches, abdominal and leg pains and cramps, hot and cold flashes, nausea, anorexia, vomiting, intestinal pain, repetitive sneezing, and increase in body temperature, blood pressure, respiratory rate, and heart rate. _

_Symptoms usually last seven to ten days._

So far Spencer has only spent personal time with the spasms and tremors, but he knows it is only a matter of time before the others come to visit, and they have plenty of time to do it. He isn't scared yet, just desperate—the craving for the drug is so intense he feels like a man possessed, like someone could reach into him and pull out a whole other person, a sadistic son of a bitch who wants nothing more than to once again see the self-loathing, utterly dependent Spencer he has been living with for weeks. On this thought he makes a split second decision and fumbles for his cell phone in his pockets, flipping it open and dialing a number with trembling fingers. She won't be happy with him, he knows—they agreed that ending things was best for everyone involved. She'll probably refuse to do him any favors. But Spencer is hot and cold all at once and he feels a dull ache beginning to throb in his thighs and she is the only person he knows that will understand how to give him the help he needs. He takes a deep breath as it rings, trying to sound a little less panicked. There's no need to alarm her—it's late.

"Farber." Her voice falls in his ear, warm and smooth and just a little bit sleepy, and he thinks he smiles.

"Hey."

"Is everything okay, Reid? It's late."

"Not…not exactly. I, uh, I need to ask you a favor."

"What is it?"

"I need you to come over."

There is silence on her end for a long time, so long Spencer is afraid she has hung up, but then she speaks and it's considerably less warm, sharpened around the edges. "Reid, is this….a booty call? Because you and I agreed—"

"No, no, nothing like that. I don't…I don't even really know what a booty call is." He takes another breath, tries not to remember what she felt like against him. That's not what he's calling her for. Focus. "I'm trying to stop using, but I'm in a lot of pain and I'm afraid I'll break. More than 50 percent of addicts relapse—"

"Get to the point, Reid."

"Right. I know we have work in the morning, but you're the only one I've told about the Dilaudid. I know they all know anyway, but I don't want to have to deal with the questions. I'm not ready for that yet."

"Reid, I…."

"Please, Olivia." He hasn't called her by her first name since the last time they kissed.

She sighs. "I'm on my way. Don't do anything stupid until I can get there." She hangs up before he can express his gratitude. He tries not to grin. She's reluctant, but she's coming. Finally there will be more sounds in the apartment than just his own breathing and Tobias' voices in his ear, more smells than the scent of the cemetery he still can't seem to pry out of his nose when it is nighttime and he's supposed to be sleeping. She is his first step to recovery.

The pain in his legs has intensified pretty badly, so he slumps to the floor and leans his head against the wooden cabinet, trying his best to control his breathing. By the time she knocks, he's not sure if he can stand. He uses the countertop to pull himself up and hobbles to the door. "Thanks for coming."

She seems concerned despite herself—she is good at hiding her emotions, but Spencer has been a profiler for a long time, and there's not much he can't read about her. He tries not to let himself enjoy it. "You look like hell." She steps in and drops her purse and coat in the corner. "How long have you been having withdrawal symptoms?"

"Not long, as to be expected. Generally it starts about five hours after the last time you shoot up. I timed it pretty well." He looks her up and down, notices for the first time how long her dark hair has gotten, wonders how long the tips have been blonde. He shakes his head. Apparently his observation skills have been worse than he thought they were lately. "It's good to see you."

"We see each other every day, Reid."

"Yeah, but we see each other over pictures of dead bodies and rape victims. I don't think we've had a conversation that wasn't about victimology or the MO of an unsub since—" he trails off awkwardly. _Since we broke up_. She looks away, her jaw working.

"Well, it's a good thing you called me. This place is a mess. When was the last time you—"

In between one blink and the next, Spencer suddenly cannot hear her anymore, like someone has flipped a switch and turned all his senses off. He's pretty sure he can still feel, though, because there's no other way to explain why her hands feel like fire as she wraps her arms around his shaking frame. "Spencer? Spencer." Now she's too loud in his ear, too close. She sinks gently down to the floor with him, cradling his head in her arms. She pushes his hair behind his ears, wipes the sweat from his forehead. "You're burning up. Let me go see if you have any fever reducers."

"No." He shakes his head as best he can, clenching his hands into fists as if it will somehow give him enough control to speak. "No narcotics."

Olivia nods. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just….stay with me. Until it's over."

"Okay. Okay. I'm not going anywhere." She repositions herself, gets comfortable. Spencer notices that she's taken off her shoes, just like she always does the minute they get on the plane. He closes his eyes and lets his head sink into her lap. He waits for sanity. _Six more days to go. _

He's missed her.


	2. Chapter 2

hotchner

At 7:30 Aaron Hotchner is still sitting stoically at his desk, pretending to be doing more than twiddling his thumbs but in actuality searching desperately for something to do that doesn't involve staring blankly at unsolved crime scenes like he's been doing since the team finished a local case two hours ago. It had been one of those rare cases where they had caught the unsub—a serial bomber protesting anti-gay legislature, Agent Farber's specialty—fairly easily, so J.J. had rushed home to start preparations for Will's tentatively-planned birthday party and the rest of the team had locked themselves in their own nooks and crannies of the B.A.U., but Hotch, feeling restless, had decided to try and put more bodies behind bars. His glazed eyes are now itching with tiredness, swimming in the words he knows today is just not the day to make sense of. He doesn't like it when he's not busy, though—too much time to think.

He'd had to move his picture of Jack to one of his drawers this morning when he caught himself looking at it too much—there is a Murphy's law to his job, and he knows a case would have been called in the minute he got his tie undone and started the griddle for Jack's pancakes. Besides, he's with his grandmother until tomorrow, and Hotch knows she hates to have her time shortened with him since Haley died. He wonders if Jack has even noticed that he's been away from his father the past few days.

"Hotch?" He looks up. It's Garcia, nervously biting her lip and crossing her feet. They've never really had much of a relationship, although Hotch has always wondered why. He likes her a lot—her quirky telephone dialect and cheerfulness are a godsend when things get heavy on the job. "Will's party starts in a few minutes, and Derek and I were wondering if you wanted a ride."

"That would be great. Thank you. Just let me get a few affairs in order first."

"Of course." She lingers outside the door instead of coming to sit down, glancing down the hall every few minutes for Morgan. Hotch watches her as he files his last bit of paperwork, feeling a little insulted. He's not _that_ intimidating.

"You ready to go, baby girl?" Morgan appears around the corner with Garcia's coat, helping her slip it onto her shoulders.

She grins. "I'll go anywhere with you, shoogs, as long as it's private." She pokes her head back through Hotch's office door. "Are you ready, sir?"

"Yes. Let's go." He grabs the present he has had stored under his desk for a week, when J.J. had originally wanted to have the party but was called last-minute to a case in Long Island. He's nervous, as always when he attends a party—he's a horrible gift giver, and he doesn't know if Will is the kind of guy who will appreciate a gift certificate to a store downtown that sells mostly quality hardware design. Haley used to help him with this kind of thing.

Morgan puts the car into drive and pulls out of the parking lot. "So, Hotch, did you hear the gossip about Reid and Farber?"

"If there is more fraternization going on between two F.B.I. agents, particularly two more members of our team, I don't need to hear about it. I also don't see why need to burn rubber—we've got plenty of time. Check your speedometer." Inside, though, Hotch is itching. After a long moment of reprimanded silence, he snaps. "Although, I suppose if you and Garcia were to talk about it amongst yourselves and I just happened to overhear, it wouldn't be the worst thing."

Hotch can hear the grin in Morgan's voice—the bastard knows he can be a sucker for good gossip about the right people. "Well, Penelope, did you get a chance to talk to Farber about why exactly she showed up this morning at the exact same time Reid did wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday, even though she tried putting on one of his shirts to make it look different?"

"I did," Garcia said devilishly, "and she says that he called her late last night for her help with a problem only she could help with and that she ended up having to stay the night. She claims that nothing, happened, though, and that they slept in different rooms."

"More likely she slept in his bed in one of his t-shirts at his insistence that she be comfortable and he slept on the couch. This morning she got up and made him breakfast to let him sleep late, since he was probably up most of the night. One of the most common drug withdrawal symptoms is insomnia." Hotch looks around at their quizzical stares and shrugs. "They've been in love for a year—an ill-advised breakup because of his abduction isn't going to stop that. And don't pretend like we all don't know what his 'problem' was. She's the only one he told about the Dilaudid, so she's the only one he can call when he's afraid he can't handle the pain of withdrawal alone."

"That would explain why Reid looks like hell today. And why he made so many trips to the bathroom." Morgan pulls into J.J.'s driveway and cuts the engine, reaching behind his seat to grab his coat. "I followed him in there once to make sure he wasn't shooting up, but it sounded like he was dry-heaving. He wasn't hearing a word of it when I tried to get him to take some personal time."

"Of course not. I've known Reid a long time—he'll try as desperately as he can to put everything back to normal, and he needs his routine. The best thing we can do is be there for him." Hotch grabs his present and slams the car door behind him, bending his shoulders against the wind as they walk to the front door. "Does anyone know how old Will is now?"

"Thirty-five," Garcia answers immediately. "J.J. doesn't like that they're so close in age. It makes her feel old." She leans forward to ring the doorbell, her blonde curls falling over Morgan's chest. He tugs on one softly and smiles, and Hotch tries not to think about Haley.

"Since when is thirty-five old?" Morgan asks.

"When you work with two kids who haven't turned thirty yet and are both smarter than you'll ever be," J.J. says as she opens the door and ushers them inside, taking their presents and coats and throwing them over the arm that isn't holding Henry. "Welcome to Will's birthday party and my mid-life crisis. Alcohol is down the hall."

Morgan chuckles. "Thanks, J.J. Go easy on the stuff—we've got to work tomorrow." He disappears down the hall with Garcia, throwing an arm protectively around her and already laughing at something she's said.

Hotch takes the coats from J.J. and puts them on the loveseat at her instruction. "Where's Farber? I need to talk to her."

J.J. rolls her eyes. "Canoodling with Reid." Hotch follows her gaze to the couch in the center of the room. Everyone else is dancing, laughing, shaking hands with Will, but his two youngest team members are curled up next to each other, both breathing the other in. Farber has her feet tucked under her like a little girl—Reid is sitting cross legged, his knee touching one of hers. Hotch doesn't have to be a profiler to know that this is classic flirtatious behavior. "She swears up and down that nothing happened last night, and I believe her, but I don't believe that they didn't want it to. He hasn't looked this happy since they first started trying to hide their relationship from us."

"He sure looks a lot better than he has lately, at least as far as emotions go," Hotch agrees. "He looks awful physically, though. Morgan says he refuses to take some time."

"Unfortunately, yes. We all ambushed him at different times today, but he was hearing nothing of it. Personally, I'm just glad he's trying to kick it. I've been worried about him."

"We all have. If you'll excuse me." Hotch pats J.J. and makes his way over to the couch. The minute she sees him, Olivia hastily starts tucking a purple something into the collar of her jacket—she moves her knee just a fraction of an inch, but it is enough. "Farber? A word?"

She shares a look with Reid and rises from the couch. "Of course. Excuse me." She follows Hotch outside on the patio and places her hands on the railing, bracing her feet against the bottom of it. She seems to be looking out at the stars, but the cloudy webs of her irises are gazing somewhere far away. "Look, Hotch, I know you have to pretend to care about the fraternization rules in front of people, but let me save you the breath. Nothing is going on between the two of us."

"That's not what I was going to say. I was going to say that I think you need to cut the crap and be honest with him."

She looks at him, surprised. "I'm sorry?"

"Reid is going through a tough time right now, and he doesn't have anyone to help him with it. He called _you_ last night, not anyone else—obviously he wants you to be a part of it, and you're turning him down."

"That could be because I'm not interested." Her eyes are once again guarded, her hands clenching tight on the rail. "I went over there because he needed a friend. I stayed the night because I had to make sure he'd be okay in the morning and it was too late to drive back. Maybe it's been a little while since you've done the dating thing, Hotch, but to me, that doesn't sound like hooking up."

"Olivia," he says softly.

She lets out a breath. "Look, even if there was something between us, I'd never act on it. Like you said, he's going through a tough time right now—he's vulnerable and he doesn't know what he wants. He got abducted three months ago. He's not ready for something like that yet. We're just being friendly. It's no different than how I would act with J.J. or Garcia or Prentiss."

"So if J.J. or Prentiss gave you their scarf because you said you were cold, you'd wear it?" He looks pointedly at her as she flushes and fiddles inconspicuously with the striped purple material under her collar.

"With all due respect, _sir_, I think it's time I went back inside. Have a good night." She closes the glass door just a little too hard behind her, and Hotch winces a little at the sound. He isn't used to Olivia hiding things from him.

He goes back inside and tries not to think that his team is falling apart just as much as his family.


End file.
